


de Vader van Italië

by blithesea, womenseemwicked



Category: Hartenstraat (2014), Il Padre d'Italia (2017)
Genre: (is that really not a tag yet? how?), Alcohol, Awkward Flirting, Bi-Curiosity, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Multilingual Character, Quick Burn, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Humor, Single Parents, bisexual awakening, flirting with food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithesea/pseuds/blithesea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/womenseemwicked/pseuds/womenseemwicked
Summary: Ten years after the events of Il Padre d'Italia, a new carpenter takes on the project of fixing up the shop next-door to Daan's on Hartenstraat.
Relationships: Paolo/Daan
Comments: 45
Kudos: 142
Collections: Cowritten fics by Mei and Theo





	1. there are dreams that you don't even dare dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daan and Paolo meet, triggering what we'll call a _gentle_ sexuality crisis for Daan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic will be around a T rating until chapter 3, when rating will jump.

**Paolo**

“Papà?”

Paolo glances up from where he’s setting the table, rubbing tiredness from his eyes.

“Have you packed your school bag?” he asks when she plops down onto a chair. The way her feet dangle way above the ground makes him smile a bit, but he hides it behind a box of cornflakes. His daughter insists that she has grown at least a foot since last Christmas. He agrees with her, as in everything.

“Last night,” she acquiesces, “but papà? Did you know that swans stay together all their life?”

“Is that so?” Paolo pushes a bowl of cereal across the table and pours himself one.

“Mhm!” Italia affirms. “And when they’re in love they make a heart with their necks. Like this.” She demonstrates with her arms, forming both hands into points like beaks. Paolo can’t help but smile wide at that. “And they never fight, or break up, ever,” she says, green eyes wide with conviction.

“Where did you learn all of this?” he asks, finally taking a seat opposite her.

Italia answers through a mouthful of cereal. “At school. One of the other girls’ speeches. Her name is Saartje. She was wearing _wings_ for her speech.”

“Saartje,” Paolo says the name slowly, tries not to trip over the odd vowels and consonants. His daughter’s Dutch is so much better than his, no matter how many years he has been trying. “Are you making new friends already?”

Italia shrugs. “She’s nice. And sometimes she walks home from school with some of the other girls. Papà, can I walk home from school with them?”

Paolo curses inwardly, tries to pretend he didn’t hear. It still works _sometimes_. “ _Dio mio_ , I forgot to buy ham this weekend. Are you okay with cheese on your sandwich?”

“Jelly?” she tries to bargain, and they settle on egg salad. “But papà…”

“Mmmmh, are you really gonna wear the tutu all the way to school? I think it might get dirty…”

“I will be careful,” his daughter promises, a little too earnestly. He didn’t mean to stop her from running around with the other kids, her _friends_. God above, she is so blessedly better at being a kid than he ever was. “But papà, can’t I walk with them? Just today, maybe?”

“It’s too far, Mia.” He can see her bite her lip, hang her head, and already feels like the worst dad in the world. She is so very much her mother’s daughter, always curious, always thirsting for adventure. “I don’t know,” he waffles. “I don’t know these kids, or their parents. They could be _psychos_.”

Italia sighs dramatically, but Paolo interrupts her, unable to just say no even after 10 years.

“ _But_ ,” he says, “we will see. Maybe if you’re very good this week—” already Italia’s teeth are all on show in a wide grin, which Paolo can’t help but mirror with a soft smile of his own, “—and I decide that Saartje and her friends don’t look too _scary_ …”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, papà!” Italia pops up from her chair to come around the table and throw her arms around him. Paolo groans dramatically over the impact, but kisses the top of her head before sending her off to collect her school things.

They take the tram and walk to school together, as usual, Italia in a pink tutu over her jeans, dancing at his side.

**Daan**

Daan gives Saar a kiss outside the school gate and lets her run free to join the other kids. She runs past a girl about her age, dressed in a pink tutu, who points at her and turns to the man beside her, tugging at his coat.

“She is still single, you know.” A voice behind Daan makes him flinch, and chuckle with embarrassment. Lucas, misinterpreting what he is looking at, as usual; thinking Daan is considering the particularly short skirt Jeremy’s mother is wearing today.

“Who?” he asks just to irk Lucas, and lets his eyes linger on the little tutu girl’s father. He doesn’t remember either of them. Usually he’s pretty good with the names of Saar’s classmates. Maybe he’s been slacking.

“Just look at that ass. I hear she does Pilates in her free time. Core muscle strength, man.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t do pole-dancing, too? Or wrestles with tigers?”

“You make fun now, but Marjet and I both think you two could actually click.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Daan laughs. “Who’s the guy over there. Do you know?”

Lucas reluctantly tears his focus from Jeremy’s mom to look around and shrugs disinterestedly.

“Pablo or something. The girl must be his daughter, _Italië_.” He huffs a laugh. “Three guesses where they’re from.”

Daan doesn’t quite laugh with Lucas, but he does smile when Italië pulls her dad down next to her and gives him a very parental kiss on the head. He remembers the fights that had broken out over naming Saar, years ago. Inge’s wishes and the fear of bullying ultimately winning out over his will to honor _their_ heritage, as confined as it often feels to holidays and family dinners.

Italië lets her father go to stand up again and he shifts a little, drawing Daan’s gaze before he knows it to the curve of his ass. Daan feels his skin warm and glances away quickly, feeling obvious, but Lucas is back to rambling about how compatible he’d be with Jeremy’s mom and no one else seems to have noticed. He calms his breath and glances back again, feeling like an idiot teenager.

Maybe Bas and Lucas are right, he really does need to get laid.

Later that day he stares at the profile page Bas helped him set up and feels overwhelmed. It all feels so silly and pointless, trying to sift through this dating website like someone searching for a needle in a haystack, just to find some kind of woman who will… well. _Fit_ somehow. After his one long-term relationship ended in a failed marriage, one that started when they were so young and ended so long ago now, Daan isn’t even sure he knows what he wants anymore.

 _Maybe I’m going about this all wrong_ , Daan thinks, reminded of this morning. Lucas jabbering on about Jeremy’s mom. The cute dad in the dark overcoat. Maybe instead of narrowing his search down, he needs to open it up. Be a bit more flexible for whatever connection the site throws his way. The first thing he changes is the age range, which Bas had set from 22 to 29. Good grief. 25 to 45, that’s more like it. Then Daan’s mouse hovers over the gender option. “Seeking women,” “Seeking men,” “Surprise me.”

Daan clicks decisively. He could do with some more happy accidents in his life.

The next morning, Daan barely sets foot in Jacob and Rein’s café before they start quizzing him. Apparently the shop next to his has a new guy working on the renovations, and word has already reached them before Daan has even seen him.

“He’s smoking hot,” Rein informs him. Jacob rolls his eyes.

“You haven’t seen him,” he objects.

“He has a _perfect_ ass. And really _intense_ eyes,” Rein says, narrowing his own into a comical smoulder. Daan nods and smirks a little.

“I’ll report back,” he promises, and thanks Jacob for the coffee. He won’t admit it, but he’s more than a little curious about this new carpenter himself now. So it isn’t long after he gets back to his shop that he decides to pay next door a visit. It’s only neighborly, after all.

The door is leaning half open, so he lets himself in.

“Hello?”

The front room seems empty, but he can hear some power tool droning in the back.

“Hello?” he calls a little louder, walks deeper into the space, minding his steps. There are tools and wood and all kinds of stuff he can’t even name strewn all over the floor.

The mechanical sound stops. “Yes?”

A nice enough voice, but not enough to satisfy Daan’s curiosity. He crosses through a doorway and sees someone bent over a piece of something or other by the back window. The first thing Daan notices about the guy is the soft swell of his biceps, highlighted by the fact that he is only wearing an undershirt. Then the broadness of his shoulders, the slender hips. Then Daan’s eyes adjust to the direct sunlight from outside, and he actually recognizes the face.

“Oh, hi,” he can’t help but smile with surprise. “I didn’t know you were… Hi, I’m Daan. From next door. The catering place? Our daughters go to school together.”

Italië’s dad straightens and offers his hand to shake.

“Paolo,” he says. Daan must imagine that his hand lingers longer than it needs to.

“Paolo,” he echoes, nodding. “Are you new? Or just filling in for Levi?” he asks.

Paolo grimaces and glances around him at the half-constructed shop.

“Both?” he says. “I was actually hired to be the project manager, but, well…” he tosses his hands up to indicate the mess around him and manages a strained smile. “Here I am.”

He sounds harried, but less bitter about it than Daan would have guessed.

“I heard Levi broke his foot,” Daan says sympathetically, and then, to fill the silence that stretches between them: “Wasn’t this place supposed to open next week?”

Paolo runs his face through his hands and sighs, nodding, glancing back at what he had been working on. Some scaffolding? A bannister? Daan wishes he had more than a very dim idea on what it’s supposed to be. He’s not even positive what this shop is going to be when it’s complete.

“Well, if you ever feel like a roll… we also have salads, aubergines— Are you a vegetarian?”

Paolo blinks at him. Slowly.

Daan shifts on his feet, feeling a little sillier with every passing second. “I just meant, well. If you’re ever hungry, I’m right next door. If you need anything.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Paolo doesn’t turn back to his work, but he also doesn’t move to say anything else. And as articulate as Daan normally is, something about Paolo is making it hard for him to think of anything to say. It’s off-putting. And when Paolo glances back towards the drill he’d been using, Daan can tell it’s meant to be his cue to go.

“Alright then, I’ll leave you to it,” he says. The last of his words are drowned out when Paolo switches on the drill again.

He’s barely back in his shop for five minutes before Rein steps in, eyes wide.

“The usual, please, Daan!” he calls out as he walks up to the counter, and then: “So?” he asks. “What’s he like?”

Daan shakes his head in disbelief.

“Did you really come over here just to ask me what the builder is like?”

Rein sputters.

“I’m here to pick up lunch,” he insists. “And you happen to have the freshest gossip. So _spill_.”

Daan huffs a laugh.

“There’s nothing to spill,” he says. “His name is Paolo, and he’s filling in for Levi. He doesn’t talk much. Very busy.”

Rein hums and looks thoughtful.

“He has a daughter,” Daan thinks to add, unable to pinpoint why but feeling slightly unsettled by the thought that Rein is already assuming there’s a hot new single on the market. Probably because he can see how much Rein’s wandering eyes tear at Jacob.

Rein ponders that.

“How old?” he asks.

Daan shrugs. “Saar’s age, I think.”

Rein nods, satisfied.

“Well, there’s hope then. He could be like you, no offense.”

Daan doesn’t know how to even respond to that, but Rein has moved on to talking about the sexiness inherent in knowing a man can take care of someone aside from himself, so he doesn’t particularly feel qualified to comment anyway, though by the end of the spiel he’s wondering if he’s more qualified than he thought.

**Paolo**

The alarm on his phone starts beeping, but Paolo barely registers it; the whine of the saw deafens out both the sound and the vibration in his pocket. When he does notice the time, 15 minutes later, he curses and has to abandon everything in a hurry, rushing like a madman to pick up Italia from school. Long ago, he swore to himself never to let her wait, never to let her wonder why he isn’t there, to worry that he has forgotten her, abandoned her. He has kept his own promise so far, and he keeps it today, but it is very close. He can feel the sweat from running starting to dry on his back while he waits by the entrance, watches the throngs of children passing by.

At least Italia doesn’t seem to notice. She is her usual bubbly self after the full day of school, eager to share everything she has learned with him before they even round the first corner.

“Are you hungry, _mia piccola miracolina_?” he asks while she hangs on his right arm, using it like a monkey bar. She shakes her head no and hops back down to the sidewalk, sticking the landing.

Back at the work site they settle in their usual routine when he has a job that takes him out of the office; first he shows her around, tells her all his plans of what the end result will look like, then they settle her down at a table away from the thickest chaos to do her homework while he works not too far away, quietly if he can.

They’ve barely started with their respective jobs, though, when Italia’s voice makes Paolo pause and glance up toward her. She’s waving from where she sits near the front window, toward a girl her age out on the street and… Daan. The handsome caterer.

“Papà, it’s Saar! Can I go say hi?”

“The swan girl?” he mumbles, coming over to get a look, doing his best to brush the worst of the sawdust off his shirt.

“Can I?” Italia asks again, “You can meet her dad.”

“I already did. He runs a caterer’s next door.” Paolo says, trying not to think about how he really should keep working uninterrupted if he wants any chance of finishing this work near on time, even as he checks that the saw is unplugged and grabs his wallet. “How about we go over there and get some… sandwiches, or something?”

“Yes!” She beams, even before he’s finished speaking.

The bell above the door chimes and the girls, who just that morning seemed to be acquaintances at most, are grinning wide and pulling seats up at a table in the window to chat. Paolo can’t help but smile a little at how grown up and yet how very young they look, legs dangling from too-tall chairs while they gesture from the shop he’s renovating, to this one, and back.

“I guess we have to become friends now, after all,” he says, stepping up to Daan’s counter with a shrug.

Daan’s cheeks dimple and he laughs.

“We have no choice,” he agrees, shaking his head. “Are you here for the new neighbor special?”

Paolo raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Take a seat. I have something that’ll make you homesick.”

He says it like it’s a good thing, and Paolo finds himself amused enough at the idea to do as he’s told, watching Daan work behind the counter.

“So, how long have you been living in the Netherlands, Paolo?”

He raises his eyebrows at the question. “Is my Dutch that terrible?”

Daan laughs. “No, no, it’s quite good. Not at all like you just moved here a couple of weeks ago. That’s why I’m curious.”

“We lived in Den Haag before. Nine years,” Paolo answers. And waits for the inevitable follow-up. Italia’s mother, where is she, what does she do? But Daan just plops a plate piled high with food before him with a flourish.

“There you go. Eggplant à la Milanese à la Daan.”

He pops over to the window with two plates for the girls, while Paolo carefully takes the first bite. It is _good_. He finds himself wolfing down his portion much faster than he should, knows deep in his Italian roots good food should be relished, but he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and this is hearty and savory and just the thing he needs right now.

“So, does this call you home to sundrenched shores?” Daan asks on his way back behind the counter, looking busy with putting things away.

Paolo considers, then shakes his head.

“No,” he mumbles in between bites, and Daan’s face falls a little. But then Paolo pushes his empty plate towards him and says, “Can I have more, please?”

And Daan’s grin all but lights up the room.

Paolo finishes a second serving before he has to return to work, at which point Daan offers to let Italia stay, since she and Saar are getting along so well. Paolo allows it, and tries not to take it personally when Italia barely looks up to receive his hug, too busy with whatever she and Saar are discussing in Dutch too rapid for him to keep up with.

Fueled by good food, Paolo gets through all the work he should’ve been able to without taking a break, plus some. By the time he’s ready to lock up for the night and go back next door, Paolo is feeling pretty good about the day. He only feels better about it when he gets inside the little shop next door to the joyful sounds of Italia, Daan, and Saar playing a card game at one of the little tables.

Daan winks at him and waves him over.

“Take my spot,” he says, handing over his cards. “I have to go get something.”

Looking at the cards in his hand, Paolo suspects that Daan has been getting his ass kicked by two 10-year-olds and is using him as an easy out. In the next few minutes, it’s all he can do to keep up with the two girls.

“Mia, please tell me you’ve been hiding cards in your sleeve,” he complains in their native tongue. “How come I never get any good ones?”

“Speak Dutch, papà, that’s not fair, Saar is gonna think you’re cheating,” his daughter chides, and continues to rip him off.

“I would, but I don’t want Daan and Saartje to hear me swearing like a fishwife,” he replies in Dutch, and the girls dissolve into fits of giggles.

Then Daan reappears, carrying a parcel of tinfoil. “Here, I got you two a bit of a doggy bag. Saar and I can never finish the leftovers alone, and I hate wasting food.”

“Let me give you something for it,” Paolo offers, reaching for his wallet, but Daan refuses it.

“It’s leftovers. You’re doing _me_ a favor by taking them.”

“Then for lunch,” Paolo insists, but Daan just reaches out to still his hand.

“That was a welcome to the neighborhood. On me. Please.”

Paolo sighs, unsatisfied, but Daan’s hand lingers on his and finally he nods.

“Okay. Thank you,” he says, wondering how one man has so quickly made him feel more at home than all of Den Haag ever did.

Parting the girls proves difficult, but Paolo and Italia have only been on the tram home for a minute before she’s curled up against his side, softly snoozing. Paolo shifts the foil boxes on his lap, marked with “... van Daan” and smiles a little, dimples and big, warm eyes coming to his mind’s eye unbidden.

**Daan**

That night Daan logs back into the dating profile Bas created for him, feeling silly but a little curious. He matches with a handful of women, but finds himself more curious to see which kind of men the website will try to hook him up with. It’s a bit disappointing when none of them feel like his “type,” even if he doesn’t know what that would be.

Too young, too macho, too serious, too hairy, too feminine… it’s enough to make him question why he ticked the box that let all these profiles be offered to him in the first place, wonder if he’s straight as they come after all, and a bit of a homophobe at that.

But then he lets his thoughts wander back to seeing Paolo that first time, in front of the school, and how he couldn’t take his eyes off him. The fact that his smile when Daan had given him the leftovers that night had made Daan’s heart race, and the way he’d played with the girls had made him feel the same sort of fondness that seeing Inge with Saar used to do. He’s found guys passingly attractive before, even had a crush that broke his heart back in high school, but something about Paolo makes it all feel more real.

“Shit,” Daan mutters to himself. Because they both have daughters, daughters who are apparently best friends now. Not to mention the fact that despite Rein’s insistence that he’s “definitely gay,” Paolo’s more likely to be straight than not.

Daan shakes his head and focuses back on his search. The next man that comes up, “Max,” he makes himself linger. Bookish, athletic, and he has a nice smile. Maybe, Daan thinks, he could find him attractive. Feeling utterly out of his depth, he clicks on Max’s profile and starts composing a message.


	2. because you're afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daan takes a couple of brave little baby-steps into the world of bisexuality.

**Daan**

When Bas stops by for breakfast the next morning on his way to work, Daan doesn’t intend to tell him about Max, or the fact that he ticked the “Surprise me” box at all. It’s too new, too shaky, Daan himself doesn’t even know what to think of it.

But, “Still too much of a coward to message any of the cuties on that dating website?” is one of Bas’ first comments while he waits for Daan to make him a sandwich, so Daan’s plan to avoid the topic if at all possible seems unlikely.

“Maybe we should go through some matches together, I’ll give you some pointers on warning signs in the profile texts,” Bas suggests. Daan snorts.

“That only works if we’re looking at that information with the same goal in mind. But unlike you, I’m not just looking for a quickie with a total stranger.”

“Ouch, man. I don’t _just_ do it for the sex,” Bas complains. “Sometimes I do it for the breakfast on the morning after.”

Daan laughs. “I am so sorry. I completely misjudged your character, then.”

“And anyway, it’s not healthy, the way you carry on, or refuse to carry on. We need to get you laid, my friend, before you explode like some kind of sperm bomb.” Bas takes the laptop out of his briefcase and starts typing the address of the dating website in his browser.

“I don’t need your help, Bas, honestly. I have a date tomorrow.”

Damn.

Bas’s eyes widen and fix on him.

“A date? Fantastic! Is she hot? What’s her name?”

Daan’s heart rabbits in his chest and he focuses on what his hands are doing, stalling.

“Uh… name’s Max,” he says.

Bas narrows his eyes.

“She doesn’t even have a profile picture, does she,” he shakes his head. “Rookie move, man, I’m telling you--”

“No, she… _he_ does. Have a profile picture.” Daan clears his throat and keeps his eyes on Bas’s sandwich. He can feel his face heating.

Bas is quiet for a probably record-breaking five seconds before he lets out a low whistle.

“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out long. “Cool. Very cool.”

Daan can’t help but snort a laugh and glance up at him.

“Yeah, super cool,” he teases, feeling suddenly less anxious about it all. But still... “I’m not— I’m just trying to be open for anything, you know? When am I going to have a chance to try if not now?”

Bas nods slowly.

“Sure. I mean, who hasn’t wanted to suck a cock at least once, right?”

It’s a good thing Daan isn’t chewing on anything, or he might have actually choked. As it is, he merely sputters a bit, and tries to laugh it off. His face still feels hot even after Bas leaves the shop.

Once the lunch rush has died down, Daan finds himself putting together another sandwich with the best of meats he has left, and packs it together with a bottle of grapefruit lemonade and a couple of pecan muffins he and Saar baked together the previous night. The drilling next door has been going on steadily all morning, and he’s pretty damn near positive that his handsome neighbor hasn’t stopped for any kind of break. It’s only being hospitable. And anyway, since he has a date tomorrow, Daan supposes he is practically spoken for by now. Not in any danger of temptation from Paolo, who can sleep in peace, never having known that Daan was even looking at him that way at all.

When Daan lets himself in next door, Paolo is down to his undershirt again. The air is hot and stuffy with dust, only sensible to undress, surely, but... _damn_.

This time, Paolo notices him before he has to shout over the machine, and switches off. “Daan.”

“Hey,” Daan smiles at him, and tries very hard only to look at his face. “Thought I’d bring you something to eat. More leftovers…”

Paolo eyes the bottle of lemonade with an eyebrow quirked, but sets down his powertool to accept the food nonetheless, with a mumbled, “ _Grazie mille._ ”

Daan looks at the work Paolo has done since he’s been here last, and whistles through his teeth. “Wow, you’re really making progress here, aren’t you?”

“It’s going alright,” Paolo allows, glancing up, like he honestly hadn’t noticed.

He uncaps the bottle and takes a long pull from the lemonade. Daan is definitely not watching him swallow, watching his Adam's apple bob. Fuck and damn. He clears his throat.

“Listen, I was thinking. I could fetch Italia from school this afternoon, if you like. Keep an eye on both girls till you’re done here again?”

Paolo frowns, and for a moment Daan wonders if he’s overstepped. Then he replies, “That would be nice.”

Daan grins, and though it seems like he didn’t mean to, Paolo smiles right back.

“I could make it up to you, get the girls tomorrow?”

“Ah,” Daan shakes his head, “Actually, Saar’s mom picks her up on Fridays. I can still keep an eye on Italia for a bit if you like, but I have a date— an _internet_ date, at seven, so...” the words feel weird enough to say on their own, nevermind the nerves about the _kind_ of internet date, but Paolo doesn’t seem any more shocked by them than he is himself.

“Some other day, then,” Paolo says decisively.

Daan smiles and nods, trying not to get too ahead of himself in mourning the fact that Paolo only has a couple days left on this project before the shop’s opening.

“Anyway, enjoy the food,” he says, feeling bafflingly out of his depth for no reason as he turns toward the exit. Paolo laughs softly behind him.

“See you later, Daan,” he calls after him, and Daan feels like a blushy teenager.

“You too!” he tosses back, hurrying out.

After school Daan sets the girls up in the corner of his shop with a snack, but business picks up around four, enough that soon they’re just getting underfoot, so he sends them upstairs to make a fort or something, with the promise to come check on them as soon as he’s less busy.

The way they scamper off, you’d think he’d given them permission to go meet Santa Claus.

It takes a while, but finally the rush dies down, an actual decent profit having been made for the first time that week, and Daan is free to sneak upstairs for a second and check on Saar and Italia.

“... _were_ married before,” Saar is saying as Daan opens the apartment’s front door, and something about the conspiratorial tone of her voice makes him pause. Are they gossiping about _him?_ “But they don’t love each other anymore, so mom married Roderick. But dad doesn’t have anyone, and I think that makes him sad. He says I’m the only girl he needs in his life but I don’t think that’s true.”

“My dad says that too sometimes,” he hears Italia say. It makes him feel a little guilty, eavesdropping on their conversation. It’s probably best to announce his presence, or retreat again.

“But my dad is gay.”

Or maybe he should just stay right where he is.

“Really?” Saar has that academically interested voice on, the same one she’s been using to discuss swans for weeks now. “Does your dad have a boyfriend, then?” she asks. Daan doesn’t know whether to go in and chide her or stay put and listen for an answer.

“There was a boy named Sergio for a little while, but that was ages ago. I think he works too much to date anybody.”

They sound so adult, talking about their dads like _they’re_ the immature ones who don’t know what’s good for themselves, Daan doesn’t know how to feel. He does know he ought to break up this talk before it gets much farther, though. He opens the front door again, and shuts it a little louder than he had the first time.

“Girls?” he calls out, and smirks at the way they quickly quiet.

“In here!” Saar calls out.

When he turns the corner, they’re sitting cross-legged under what looks like every sheet or blanket he owns, spread out over whatever furniture they could reasonably huddle together. Daan tries not to cringe too visibly.

“It’s getting near closing time,” he says, crouching down to see them better. “How’d you like to come downstairs and help me get rid of some leftover pastries Jacob brought over from the coffeeshop?”

The girls clamber out of their fort faster than if there’d been a fire, and tramp down the stairs, leaving all thought of their conversation to him alone.

**Paolo**

“Papà!” Italia is on him almost the second Paolo enters Daan’s shop, nearly bowling him over.

“ _Diomio_ , Italia,” he chides, clutching both his daughter and the door behind him for balance, only switching back to Dutch once he is steady on his feet again. “Are you trying to kill your father?” he asks.

Daan chuckles from across the room, and Paolo glances up to see an apologetic look on his face.

“I probably shouldn’t have given them sugar…” he shakes his head.

“ _Grazie mille_ ,” Paolo mutters, but smiles a little when he sees Daan is actually chagrined.

“Papà, Saar is staying at her mom’s tomorrow and she asked me if I wanna sleep over, they are going to bake cookies and Saar’s mom’s husband has a _goldfish_! Can I sleep there tomorrow, papà? Can I?”

“It’s a koi,” Saar seems to be rushing out in the same breath, “her name is Marijke and she is super sweet and when you feed her she nibbles at your fingers!”

“You can feed her, papà!” Italia is shaking on his arm with the importance of that communication. “She nibbles at your _fingers_!”

That sounds like a very good reason not to go there at any point in his life, but Paolo can see his daughter sees it differently.

“ _Picolina_ , let me get a proper foot inside before you make me decide whether I want my only child eaten by sharks,” he begs, and tickles her as he puts her down.

She giggles and shakes her head. “Koi, papà!”

“Saar, can you come and help me out with this?” Daan calls out for his daughter, and Paolo feels a rush of relief. One little girl he may be able to talk to semi-reasonably, with two he feels a bit out of his depth.

He sits on one of the chairs to be at her eye-level. “Mia, we can’t just decide something like this, for you to stay over. I don’t know Saar’s mamma, or her husband.”

She bites her lip. “But you didn’t know Daan either, and you said he could be a psycho, but he isn’t.”

Paolo feels his ears heat up at the memory, and he shoots a quick glance over to Daan to see if he heard this. From the way Daan is looking terribly busy cleaning out his counter, Paolo is pretty damn certain that he heard every word. Great.

“I mean, we don’t know if Saar’s mom wants any guests over. We can’t just invite ourselves over, unasked, Mia. You know that.”

“But if Daan asks her, papà, and she says it’s okay, can I go then?”

Wonderful. Painted into a corner by a 10-year-old. He sighs. “Let me talk to Daan.”

She bounces with delight, runs off to her friend, and Paolo groans and gets up, walks over towards Daan. He can feel the tiredness deep in his bones.

“I can call Inge for you, no problem,” Daan says before he can even ask, busily wiping off the glass. “She gets off work in half an hour, so if you give me your number I can text you her answer then? I’m sure she won’t mind. Saar has had friends sleep over before.”

It’s all happening so fast, Paolo’s instinct is to say no, slow down, maybe some other time, but Daan is smiling at him so easy, like this is no big deal at all, like there’s nothing to it, sending your daughter off for her first sleepover to the house of a woman you’ve never met.

Paolo hesitates. Glances over at Italia and her new friend in the corner. And he can see it, just for a moment, clear as day: Mia at that same age, her own mother just as tired and boring as him, insisting she stay home because it’s easier. It’s a small freedom, but he wants his Mia to grow up knowing she doesn’t have to fight for her freedom, doesn’t have to hide it behind his back.

Finally, he nods.

“Okay.” When he glances back at Daan it’s clear he’s been watching him think this whole time, and there’s something in his face that Paolo can’t name. A curious thoughtfulness. He shakes himself out of it and smiles, cheeks dimpling slightly.

“Here, give me your number,” he says, and pulls his phone out of his apron pocket, fiddling with it a bit before holding it out to him. It’s an iPhone of some kind, in a pink drop-proof case Paolo is willing to bet Saar helped him pick out. He quickly types in his number and hands it back.

Before Paolo can fish his own phone out to hand it over, though, it’s ringing. Paolo pulls it out of his pocket and Daan winks at him, pulling his own up to his ear. Biting back a laugh, Paolo hits answer.

“Hello?”

Daan smirks and turns away. His voice echoes, crackly, in Paolo’s ear.

“That’s a nice phone you got there,” he says. “What is that, pre-Y2K?”

The laugh Paolo bit back comes out anyway, but he manages to turn it into a snort.

“I’m sorry, I think you got a wrong number,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Daan. “This is not the hotline for failed comedians with catering side hustles.”

“Ouch,” Daan grins, ending the call and pocketing his phone. “Saar loves my jokes, I’ll have you know.”

“I bet every ten-year-old does,” Paolo agrees solemnly, but smiles when he manages to make Daan crack up.

“Ok, so I’ll text you later; make sure you remember that the beeping thing in your pocket is a modern communication device.”

“Thanks for all this, Daan,” Paolo replies, a little more soberly. “I’ll go catch my daughter and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh, my hair is fine, don’t leave on that account,” Daan teases, but he helps Paolo hunt down their two hyperactive sugar-fuelled kids.

By the time Paolo and Italia catch the tram, he has already heard every little thing the two girls plan on doing the next day. And from the way his daughter’s eyes are shining, he knows he has made the right decision.

**Daan**

By 4:30, Daan has just about every clean shirt he owns scattered over the bed, along with his one pair of slacks and his nicest jeans.

At first, with Max’s profile picture in mind, he’d decided on jeans and a t-shirt, no problem. But half-way through brushing his teeth he’d realized, _this is a date. I can’t wear this to a date_ , and immediately started stripping back down. Now he’s looking at the clothes he’d normally wear to dinner with a woman and feeling off-balance. None of it feels right.

He sighs and shakes his head, passing a hand over his face.

“What do you wear on a gay first date?” he whispers to the room at large, and freezes. He knows some gay guys. What would Jacob and Rein wear?

Daan turns his gaze back on the bed, giving his shirts a fresh look, and quickly rules out anything Rein would wear. But Jacob… he picks out a dark blue button-down and walks back over to his closet. The only blazer he has is gray and slightly ill-fitted, something he bought to wear in court when Inge left him, but it will do.

Jacob would combine it with a vibrant pair of trousers, but failing that Daan settles for his nice jeans. With the shirt it’s a bit more of a double denim look than he normally goes in for, but it will have to do. He’s almost going to be late as it is. He leaves the top three buttons of his shirt undone, then frowns and buttons all but one of them, chewing the inside of his cheek.

It turns out he needn’t have worried about being late, because for the first half hour that Daan sits at the little restaurant’s table, almost vibrating with nerves, Max doesn’t show up. Daan is torn between wanting to send a message — maybe he got the wrong restaurant? maybe Max had an accident? maybe he changed his mind? — and playing it cool. After half an hour, he signals the waiter for the cheque for his two mineral waters.

“Daan?”

He looks up and smiles in surprise. “Max?”

He’s more attractive than his profile picture had made him look, particularly when he looks Daan over and smiles.

“Sorry about that. Work,” he says gruffly. Daan can tell. Max has clearly not changed out of his work clothes. He feels overdressed. “Have you ordered? I’m starving.”

So they order food. Max gets a beer and Daan follows his lead, and soon they are talking about work, and sports, and Max’s weekend football team, and it’s nice enough, but… Daan realizes an hour in that it feels like they’re just hanging out as friends. Max stifles a burp behind his fist and keeps talking, not the least bit concerned with giving a good impression.

Daan is almost wondering if he should ask if there’s been some kind of mix up, when Max finishes off his second beer and says:

“You’re a bottom, right? Your profile didn’t say.”

“Uh…”

Daan knows what Max means, of course. This may be his first date with a guy, but he is not naïve, by any measure. He is a sexually experienced adult in his mid 30s, for heaven’s sake. And yet, the unexpectedness of the question almost makes him _blush_ and wonder, in spite of himself, whether he’s somehow giving off ‘fuck me’ vibes.

“If you ask nicely,” he tries to laugh it off, picking at his food. “Isn’t it early to be worrying about that, though? You haven’t even finished your steak.”

Max does not laugh. Looks a little annoyed, if anything.

“It’s a normal question,” he says. “Like, that’s kinda essential to know, don’t you think? If we don’t fit in bed, might as well not bother.”

Daan lets out a rush of breath. “I suppose you’re right. I’m…” He shrugs. “It’s probably pretty obvious I’m very new to this whole thing, by which I mean…” He grimaces. “I’m not really looking for a… fuck-buddy, if that’s what you were thinking…”

Max smiles thinly, and orders the check.

They barely exchange ten words before they leave the restaurant, and Daan is actually trying to come up with a way to say goodbye without sounding bitter and a little disappointed, when Max shocks the breath out of him by pulling him into a dark corner and starting to kiss him.

As far as kisses go, it’s not the worst he’s ever had. Max is taller than him, which feels odd, but he smells good, feels nice and sturdy. Daan doesn’t have any time to savor that, though — Max kisses him in an aggressive, controlling way, which, together with the heel of Max’s palm grinding into Daan’s groin, puts him right off.

“Mmmh,” he protests when Max’s fingers start plucking against his belt, and pushes away. “Sorry, but I-- I gotta go.”

He can hear Max mutter under his breath as he turns to leave, but Daan doesn’t even try to hear what he’s saying, just shoves his hands into his pockets and walks away.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters to himself, though he isn’t really sure if he’s angry at Max or himself. The kiss had really only been the cherry on top of a spectacularly disappointing first date, if he’s honest. One he probably would’ve put an end to sooner if he hadn’t been trying so hard to make the guy thing work.

All the way home his head is buzzing and his lips tingle from the kiss, to the point where he almost doesn’t notice, as he approaches, that the shop next to his is all lit up even as the rest of the street is closed or closing. When he does notice it, Daan stops in his tracks, frowning. Paolo should be done for the day by now.

Sawdust and the smell of fresh paint greet him the second Daan pushes the shop door open, as well as the sound of some early ‘90s pop-song. Paolo, bless him, is singing along just barely loud enough to be heard. He doesn’t notice Daan until he’s been standing in the door for almost a minute, at which point he promptly drops his paintbrush.

“I thought you had a date?” he says, turning down the music. He’s mostly spotless, but there’s a fleck of blue paint on his bicep that Daan wants to reach over and wipe off.

“Hey,” he smiles. “I thought you had a home to get back to? Or was that an elaborate ruse? Do you actually sleep among your drills and your paint?”

Paolo scoffs, and bends to pick up the brush. “Thought I’d make some headway,” he shrugs. “With Italia out for the night…”

Daan nods and steps further into the shop, coming up to see the work Paolo’s gotten done.

“Looks good,” he says, trying to sound as professional as he can. “Any chance you feel like today’s work is done and you’d like to knock down an after-work drink or two with a friendly neighbor?”

Paolo shoots him a glance. “So, your date went well?”

After pulling a face, Daan manages to laugh a bit. “Yeah, _terribly_ well. Truly terrible in fact. Help me forget all about it, before I swear off men forever.” He’s watching Paolo’s face carefully as he says that last, but it’s not in his face that he shows his surprise.

Paolo pauses with his brush half-way to the wall and glances back at him, something like satisfaction glimmering in his eyes.

“Well, that would be a shame,” he says, and turns back to the wall. “Let me finish with the rest of this paint I have out, and I’ll join you. You can tell me all about that _testa di cazzo_. Or not,” he offers, swiping paint off the brush with a flourish.

Daan can’t hold back a grin.

“Okay,” he agrees. “You’ve got a deal.”

The logical thing, given the wide-open windows of his shop and the fact that he’d have to clean up after them in there, is to go straight up to his apartment. Surely it’s where Paolo will expect to meet. But all the good booze is in the shop, and once he’s there it occurs to him that Paolo won’t have eaten.

Since all the good food is down there as well, it’s only natural that Daan pours them each a glass and gets comfortable, pulling out ingredients for the shakshouka his mom’s mom used to make whenever she came to visit. It’s been too long since he’s had it, and since Paolo hadn’t found his Italian food particularly authentic, a part of him feels the need to redeem himself. He takes a sip of his wine and starts chopping up bell peppers and onion.


	3. that they will never come true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daan and Paolo get to know each other a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the one where sex happens

**Paolo**

Paolo takes his time. He finishes painting as he told Daan he would, then proceeds to clean up, set everything right so he can start the next day’s work with everything in order, everything as it should be.

Daan is waiting for him. Barely had to offer his company before Paolo jumped at the chance to spend time with him. And he fucking _knows_ he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t read anything into it, shouldn’t accept Daan’s friendliness as anything more than what it is. Shouldn’t have felt so very gratified when Daan confirmed that Paolo’s vague hunch about him was right: Daan is attracted to men. And if Paolo isn’t very much mistaken, Daan is attracted to _him_.

Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, it’s only going to complicate things between them when they inevitably fall out, and it’s Italia he should be thinking of first. _You can’t want everything, it’s selfish. There are limits._ The best thing Paolo can do here is keep everything strictly platonic between them. He should send Daan a text saying he has a headache and is going straight home, then leave. It would be easiest that way.

But knowing what he should and shouldn’t do doesn’t stop Paolo from wanting. And apparently, it doesn’t stop him from closing up the shop and walking the few steps over next-door.

Through the big windows, he can see the place alight, and Daan at his stove, cooking something in a skillet, nimble on his feet, pinching a bit of seasoning there, tasting with a spoon, and just the sight of it makes Paolo smile and send a little prayer to whoever is listening. He can do this. He can keep everything just friendly, if he tries hard enough.

“Did you hear my stomach growl all the way through the wall?” he says, when he steps into the small shop.

Daan glances up at him and grins. Sets his tasting spoon down and uses the same hand to grab a nearby glass of wine and raise it.

“It’s almost ready,” he says. “Come, drink some wine. I started without you like an idiot and I already had two beers with _Max._ ” He pulls a face like the very name disgusts him, and Paolo laughs, navigating the cluttered kitchen to take the wine from him. He takes a deep drink in solidarity, and carefully leans against the island countertop. Daan refills his glass.

“What are we having?” Paolo asks, ignoring the fact that Daan seems to want him to ask more about his date. He leans in to get a better look at it bubbling away in the skillet and sighs at the smell. Tomatoes, onion, garlic… it smells like heaven.

“My grandmother’s shakshouka. All you could ask for in a Tunisian breakfast,” Daan explains, and leans over Paolo to get something, a spoon he doesn’t seem to have much use for after. Paolo lets him, enjoys the closeness for what it’s worth, and takes another sip of wine.

“If you keep this up, by the time I’m done with this job, I’ll be rolling out of here, not walking.”

“And if I don’t feed you, apparently you just live on air and sleep deprivation,” Daan shrugs, smiling.

“Hm. Sometimes I have coffee, too,” Paolo counters wryly. It’s worth it when Daan laughs, and orders him to take their drinks to the little table by the windows. Daan follows close by, puts the skillet on a wooden set, lays down some cutlery and paper napkins, a basket of bread, even lights a little windlight by their side.

“There,” he says. “Pulling out all the stops tonight, because...” he throws up his hands, looking a bit self-conscious suddenly, and shakes his head. “Why not, right?”

Paolo glances over the spread in front of him as Daan takes a seat and decides that he’s right. It’s been a long time since he’s had a night apart from Italia, a night to just relax and enjoy himself in the company of another adult.

“Why not,” he agrees, and raises his wine glass to clink against Daan’s.

The food is as good as it smelled while cooking, and Paolo digs into it eagerly, going completely silent for a long time in order to just enjoy it. But Daan, Paolo realizes, has probably already just eaten, on his date, and thus picks at his food only a little before breaking the silence.

“Half an hour late, and apparently all he wanted was to fuck,” he sighs. Paolo does his best not to choke on his food. He barely has a chance to respond before Daan continues, “I probably shouldn’t have expected any different from online dating, but how else am I supposed to…”

He doesn’t seem to know how to end the sentence, and Paolo tries to do it for him in his mind. Supposed to meet new people? Paolo still remembers a time when all it took was talking to someone in a bar. He feels very old all of a sudden, though Daan can’t be that much younger than him, if he is at all.

“... even figure out if I _actually_ want to date men and this isn’t just some kind of early midlife crisis or…” Daan laughs a little and shrugs, taking a sip of his wine. Paolo glances over at him curiously.

“Is it?” he asks, simply. There are more probing questions he could ask, more pointed ones, but he’s always felt uncomfortable with the amount of self-analysis that went on in his (his boyfriends’) queer friend groups, and isn’t about to encourage that in someone so apparently new to the scene.

Daan seems to get what he’s asking anyway, though, and sits in silence with the question long enough for them both to finish off their glasses before finally turning his big, dark eyes on Paolo and saying in a very clear voice:

“No.”

And… _fuck._ The way he’s looking at him as he says that… Paolo quickly breaks the eye-contact and tries to busy himself with his drink, but his glass is still empty. If he had any doubts before whether Daan finds him attractive, it would now be ridiculous to still insist that he can’t tell, doesn’t feel the way the air seems to heat up between them. And cowardly, too. Paolo may be many things, but he’s not a coward. For the first time in years, though, he wishes he had a cigarette.

“More wine?” Daan asks, and Paolo nods, holds out his glass. Daan fills both Paolo’s and his own, but unlike Paolo, he doesn’t drink right away.

“Have you ever tried it? Online dating?” Daan’s question yanks him out of his thoughts.

Paolo snorts and shakes his head. “You’ve seen my phone. I’m allergic to technology.”

Daan laughs into his wine glass.

“I haven’t dated since school,” he confesses. “Not seriously anyway. Inge and I split when Saar was 3, but I was busy for years just getting this place started, and then… the thought of dating with a daughter at home…”

Paolo groans emphatically and nods.

“It used to be so simple,” he complains. “Go to a club, don’t get too drunk, remember to bring a condom.”

Daan nearly chokes on his wine, starts to cough, and laugh, and cough some more. Paolo leans closer to clap on his back.

“You were _not_ like that,” he challenges once he’s over the worst of the coughing, but there’s doubt in his eyes as he gives Paolo a once-over, like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Like what?” Paolo asks, biting back a smirk.

“Oh no, I’m not playing that game with you,” Daan laughs. “All wide-eyed innocence. You don’t fool me.”

Paolo huffs a laugh and finishes off his glass, pouring the last bit of the bottle into both their glasses unprompted.

“So I slept around a bit back in the day,” he smirks. “Is that so sordid?”

Daan shrugs and clinks their glasses.

“I won’t judge you for it,” he says. “So is that how— where Italia came from?”

It’s Paolo’s turn to choke on his wine this time. Daan’s hand is warm and solid on his back when he finally recovers.

“No,” he says at last. “I was done with it by then, and I only met her mother when she was several months along. We never— I’m gay.”

He is actually surprised when Daan doesn’t react much to that. It seems like they keep giving each other heart-attacks tonight, but after this particular revelation, Daan just looks at him thoughtfully, and then nods.

“Yeah, I… I knew that,” he admits, sounding a little guilty. “Not about Italia’s mother, but— The girls were discussing it the other day.”

Paolo touches his forehead and groans. “Our ten-year-olds have been discussing my love life in front of you? _Dio mio_. Please tell me you have another bottle of wine. Or ten.”

Daan laughs warmly, and stands, putting a firm hand on Paolo’s shoulder as he passes him.

“How about a _digestivo_?” he offers. “I have several _amari_ , or there’s some homemade limoncello tucked away in the freezer…”

“Ay, a man after my own heart,” Paolo says, getting up to follow. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Daan winks back at him and holds up a pair of bottles. But Paolo brushes past him for the freezer.

“I have to try your limoncello now,” he says seriously. “There are standards that must be upheld, Daniël.”

Daan snorts a laugh, and helps him out when Paolo’s eyes gloss over at the disorderly mess that is the inside of his freezer, reaching past him to pull out a glass bottle.

“Are you a connoisseur?” he asks, close enough to Paolo’s ear that he shivers, has to gather himself before he can close the freezer door and turn to face Daan where he’s moved back to the counter now, pouring into two liqueur glasses.

“Not really,” he admits, watching Daan’s forearms as he works. He can’t recall when the horrible gray blazer came off, but now he’s deeply glad that it has. “That’s a whole…” he gestures vaguely, “part of the culture I never interacted with much. Always felt outside of my reach.”

Daan holds out a glass to him, and pulls it back at the last second with a smirk, making Paolo step forward to take it. Their fingers brush, and linger.

“ _Salute_ ,” Daan says, his accent just barely coloring the word, not enough to be endearing, certainly, and yet…

“ _Cincin_ ,” Paolo returns, and takes the glass from him, never taking his eyes from Daan’s as they tip it back. The way Daan’s eyes watch him swallow sets his blood alight.

“Good?” Daan asks, almost like he’s asking a secret. Paolo nods.

“ _Perfetto_ ,” he breathes back. And the distance between them is too small to act as an actual barrier now, with nothing between them but the charged air. He steps a hair closer, looks into Daan’s eyes, searching for the answer to an unspoken question. When Daan’s breath hitches and he leans a little closer too, a hand coming up to steady himself against the countertop, Paolo sets his glass down and cups Daan’s face in his hands, bringing their lips together.

Daan freezes against him, a soft sound of surprise caught in his throat, but a second later his hands are coming up to rest on Paolo’s hips and he’s kissing him back. Cautious at first, and then deeper, almost hungry.

When Paolo finally finds it in him to pull away, Daan keeps their foreheads pressed together, a quiet laugh on his lips.

“You taste like limoncello,” he says. And what the hell, Paolo has to give him another taste just for that.

**Daan**

Kissing Paolo is better than Daan could have imagined. Not that he’d really even let himself get that far, but still. The way he pours himself into even chaste little kisses, the way he can’t kiss without grabbing onto some part of Daan, even the warm scratchiness of his unshaven chin against his makes Daan’s heart beat faster.

He breathes a sigh of disappointment when Paolo moves back and breaks up the kiss. Daan’s first instinct is to follow, make the kiss continue even if he has to bend and twist, but Paolo is looking at him with wide eyes, pupils blown, almost as if he had been smoking something, as if he is high from their kiss. And Daan smiles at that sight, a little proud.

“Do you wanna move this upstairs?” he asks, at once trying not to sound entirely too impulsive and overeager, yet still attempting to make sure Paolo gets an idea about how much he wants this.

A smile tugs at Paolo’s lips and he raises an eyebrow.

“Weren’t you just complaining about a man who wanted to fuck on the first date?”

And damn, something about that word coming out of Paolo’s mouth makes him want it more than he’d have thought he could, just days ago. Daan shakes his head vaguely.

“It’s different if the kissing comes _before_ the propositioning,” he says. “Especially a kiss like that.”

Paolo’s hand hasn’t left the side of his face, where calloused fingers cradle his neck, and Daan sighs, keeping their eyes locked as he turns his chin just enough to press a soft kiss to the heel of his palm. He can feel Paolo shiver a little at the contact on his skin, and smirks.

“But,” Paolo begins, and Daan decides that he isn’t going to be intimidated by any “buts” Paolo can come up with tonight, if they’re anything like as pathetic as the ones swirling around his own head, trying to get his attention. His arms are still around Paolo’s waist and he leans in close, kisses Paolo’s neck, down at the softness where his beard ends and his hair starts. He can feel Paolo swallow beneath him.

“But, the dishes?” Paolo says, and Daan snorts.

“Fuck the dishes.”

Paolo scoffs and shakes his head. “Let’s at least put away your tools, and the spices, and…” He trails off when Daan kisses higher, sucks on his earlobe for a second.

Daan leans back and smiles at Paolo while he searches his face.

“Are you a bit of a neat freak?” he teases. “Or are you stalling?”

“A bit of both?” Paolo leans in and lightly bumps his forehead against Daan’s, closing his eyes in a grimace. Daan gives him a squeeze.

“Let’s clean up then,” he agrees, a laugh catching in his throat when Paolo responds by pulling him into a quick, deep kiss.

“I’ll get the stuff from the table,” he says, and then Paolo’s arms around him are gone, and Daan is left on his own, feeling a little dizzy in the middle of his work kitchen.

They get the leftovers boxed up and put away and the worst of the dishes set to soaking, everything put back in its place, before Paolo comes up behind Daan and his hands, heavy and warm, slide around his waist. Daan can’t help but notice, as he pulls them close, back to chest, that Paolo only lets their hips be drawn together once Daan’s leaned back into the rest of the embrace.

The feeling of Paolo, hard behind him, when they finally do come together, is enough to make Daan gasp.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” he admits in a breath, though at this point it’s probably obvious. Paolo’s beard scratches against his neck where he nods understanding.

“I know.”

Before Paolo can snuff out all the sizzling between them by talking about how they don’t _have_ to do anything, how they can take it _slow_ , though, Daan squeezes his hand. “But I want to. With you. Just in case that wasn’t obvious.”

He imagines he can feel Paolo’s smile against his neck, and feels him nod again.

“Okay.”

Daan snorts. “Could you sound less enthusiastic?” he teases, giving Paolo’s hand another squeeze.

“I don’t think you realize how much of my mental powers I have to use right now to resist ripping off all our clothing right here and now,” Paolo says softly into his ear. “So excuse me if my conversation is lacking.”

Daan feels a shudder go all through his body, and he twists around to face Paolo again.

“You are forgiven,” he laughs, feeling a little self-conscious. “For the sake of your mental powers.”

Paolo smirks against his lips as Daan takes his hand to lead him out of the shop.

The apartment is messy. With a 10-year-old living there part-time, and Daan’s penchant for living in chaos, it usually is. But with Paolo at his side, it all looks so much worse than usual that suddenly Daan can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed.

“Well, this was nice while it lasted,” he sighs dramatically, pushing a stack of books out of the walkway with the toe of his boot. “I’d say I’m usually neater, but that would be a terrible lie.”

Paolo groans behind him, but it’s clearly just as much of an affectation. He closes the door behind him, for one, and quickly wraps an arm around Daan from behind for another.

“Better to cut this off before it begins, then,” he agrees, pressing a kiss into the juncture of Daan’s shoulder and neck.

Daan shivers and cranes his neck to give Paolo’s lips more space to work with, taking a slow step towards the unmade bed.

“It’s a shame,” he breathes, letting his eyes drift closed, “I really wanted to suck your cock.” And it must be the alcohol, letting him say things before he even knows them himself, but once he does, the need settles deeper into his gut, impossible to ignore.

The soft hum of Paolo’s lips makes the sensitive skin of his neck tingle.

“Maybe I can close my eyes,” he offers, humor still in his voice even as it drops lower. “For that.”

“You are so accommodating,” Daan laughs, and turns around, pulling them back into a deep kiss. Paolo’s hands on him, holding him, are almost as intoxicating as his kisses, and Daan finds himself tugging at Paolo’s shirt after a moment. Wants it off, _now_. Their fingers tangle over the buttons, Daan probably more hindering than helping, but at least he gets to touch Paolo, first through the soft, worn shirt, then on his actual skin, smooth and warm and just the lightest bit hairy.

“I don’t know if you know this,” he mutters, leaning in to kiss Paolo again while his hands touch and pull him closer, shove the undershirt up away from softly defined abs, “but you, working without your shirt over there, is actually a, uh… health and safety violation. People who see you might walk into a wall, or staple their hand to the table, or uh…”

“Yeah?” The smile on Paolo’s lips is thoroughly entertained. Like he doesn’t know or doesn’t believe in the distracting nature of his own body. Daan bows his head to trail hungry kisses down from one of the broad shoulders in question, down over his biceps, pausing to press a kiss to that stray bit of now-dried paint he noticed earlier. He pauses while Paolo laughs at him, to tug his undershirt up over his head and groans, moving in to bury his face in his chest.

Everything about him feels, tastes, _smells_ so unlike the women that Daan’s slept with, so thrillingly new, but the motions of it all are more familiar than he would have imagined. Daan draws his tongue over a dusky nipple, and Paolo groans and holds him there. He glances up to meet Paolo’s eyes, and finds him biting his own bottom lip, pulling him back up for a kiss.

“ _Che bello,_ ” Paolo whispers, and being called beautiful… that’s new. But Daan can’t say he minds it in the slightest.

Paolo helps him out of his shirt with much less struggle than Daan had had, and Daan can’t help but be reminded of the vast difference in their levels of experience with all this. The thought makes him flush slightly, but it feels good, Paolo’s hands sure against his bare skin.

“How?” he asks, sounding a little disbelieving. “How do you look like this, with all the food you make?”

Daan laughs out loud.

“Running after a 10-year-old all day,” he jokes. “It’s a fantastic workout.”

Paolo snorts a laugh and brings their lips back together, fingers slipping up into Daan’s hair. Daan can’t help but groan when Paolo’s fingers make themselves comfortable, giving his curls a gentle tug.

“Are you trying to give me bedhead already?” Daan complains with a laugh, and Paolo instantly lets go.

“ _Mi dispiace_ ,” he murmurs, and actually looks chagrined, so Daan quickly dips in to kiss it better. But kissing Paolo is not actually helping his quest to get them both naked — it’s far too distracting, the way Paolo leans in close, holds him with arms so strong from his work, the way he closes his eyes as if he needs to concentrate on every second of their mutual sucking, nibbling, licking.

As Daan finally brings his hands down to get to work on the buttons of his pants, Paolo turns a little towards the bed, as if to ask if he wants to move over there. And Daan can imagine just kissing Paolo like this for hours, lazy making-out on the bed, but right now he’s impatient. Empowered and emboldened by the newness of all of this.

So instead he drops to the floor at Paolo’s feet. Feels the floorboards dig into his knees as he looks up to meet his eyes, and watch his pupils go wide. Daan can’t help the way it makes him shudder, flush all the way to his ears, under the intensity of that soft gaze. He leans into the touch as he pushes his own hand into Paolo’s pants, greedy for it as soon as he gets the damn fly open.

He wants to feel his cock, see it, taste it, so badly he’s honestly surprised he’s not drooling. He groans at the sensation, the first brush of his fingers over hot flesh, and tugs Paolo’s pants down out of the way, exposing him fully. The thatch of dark hair, the uncut cock, thick and curving up to greet him. Daan leans in and gives it a lick, a kiss, before letting the tip slip into his mouth.

It’s hot and heavy on his tongue, and Paolo’s fingers tighten in the hair at the nape of his neck but don’t tug, just holding onto something while Daan explores, tests his boundaries. He drags his tongue from base to tip, and hums at the way Paolo shudders. Glances up at him when the hum makes his fingers tighten in Daan’s hair again.

Before Paolo can ask him if he is actually gonna start blowing him at some point in the future, Daan closes his eyes and leans in closer, sucking the length of Paolo’s cock down all the way. He does his best to mind his teeth, is determined not to gag and tries to go slow at first, letting Paolo slip out a little and then sucking him back in with determination. It isn’t as easy as he had somehow expected it to be. Paolo’s dick might not look like much, but it still feels substantial when he tries to go all the way down.

He looks up at Paolo then just to get a bit of a feeling if he is making a fool of himself here or not. But Paolo is watching him with hooded eyes, his mouth slightly open, and when Daan looks up at him, his breath hitches slightly. Smiling with a cock in your mouth doesn’t really work, Daan finds, but Paolo’s lips still tweak into a faint smile in response.

Daan redoubles his efforts. Sliding his hands up the firm lines of Paolo’s legs to grasp at his thighs, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head, playing a little with the foreskin before he slides back down, humming satisfaction when Paolo bites back a moan. He slides a hand up just a little higher, gets a handful of Paolo’s perfect ass, and groans, letting his eyes slip closed. His own cock is still trapped in denim, straining against his zipper, and it’s frustrating but it feels so good. The friction, the pressure.

Paolo’s voice rumbles above him, but Daan, concentrating on making this good, trying to remember what he likes best about blowjobs himself but failing completely to remember ever having sex with anyone else before now… Daan doesn’t catch a word of it. He lets Paolo’s cock slip out of his mouth with some regret.

“Wha?” he says, still close enough that his lips touch the soft, silky skin when he talks.

Paolo quite visibly swallows, and wipes a bit of spit from Daan’s chin with his thumb.

“I said,” he says in that low, calm voice which completely belies the tenseness in his body, “maybe you should stop now. Because I’d very much like to come while you fuck me. If you want.”

And _fuck_ , that makes Daan’s cock twitch so hard he can’t think for a second, let alone stand up. But from the satisfied smile on Paolo’s face, he understands.

“That is…” he continues. “If you have condoms. And… lube is probably too much to ask, isn’t it.” A shadow of a frown passes over Paolo’s face, thinking through the logistics now, but Daan flushes and shakes his head quickly, pulling himself up to stand.

“I have lube,” he admits, stumbling for the bathroom. “I, um…” he busies himself with rifling through the medicine cabinet, not meeting Paolo’s eye. “I’ve experimented, a little. Fingering myself… y’know…”

Paolo hums and comes up behind him, his bare cock pressing against the back of Daan’s jeans as he pulls him close.

“A little?” he asks, sounding dubious. Heat crawls all the way down Daan’s neck. The mismatched set in front of them, an oil-based lube for when he’s taking his time on his own and a silicone-based one for use with the one toy he has stashed safely away, don’t lie.

“Okay, maybe a little more than a little,” he admits. Paolo’s smile against the hot skin of his neck only seems to deepen his flush.

“You are a man of hidden depths,” Paolo mutters, sucking on his jugular for a second. “But I think for tonight, maybe, my proposal might work best.”

And it only occurs to Daan then that Paolo is saying that some other time, he’d like to fuck _him_ , or at least he is thinking about it. He lets his head lean back against Paolo and looks at them in the bathroom mirror. They are both flushed, their lips red from kissing, Daan still has shiny streaks of saliva on his chin, and Paolo’s eyes look positively hypnotic in this light.

“Mmmh, yes, let’s do that,” Daan smiles, and pushes the silicone lube into Paolo’s hand before he turns around to make for the other room, and Paolo pauses him with a hand on his hip, giving him a quick kiss.

“I’m going to freshen up then,” he says, voice low, and Daan swallows hard, nodding. He doesn’t make straight for the bed, when the bathroom door shuts behind him, instead stopping to grab a condom and carefully take off his boots. He thinks about leaving his briefs at least on, but immediately decides against it and strips those off too. And either he’s been stalling well or Paolo works fast, because the second he gracelessly falls into the bed, Paolo’s stepping out to join him, laughing when it creaks and shakes.

“No wonder you are not sleeping with anyone,” he muses, “we’re probably going to entertain all the neighbors with this bed…”

Daan groans and laughs, shifting positions heavily so that it creaks more.

“Lucky the space to the right is still unoccupied,” he agrees. “Only one there is this really attractive stand-in carpenter, and I don’t think he’d mind.”

Paolo huffs a laugh and shuts him up with a kiss, smiling against Daan’s lips in a way that makes the corners of his eyes crease and his whole body feel warmer against him, as he slowly presses him down onto his back.

Daan only pulls away after their cocks vaguely, accidentally brush, causing them both to groan. He reaches for the condom, where he tossed it on the sheets, but Paolo gets there first.

“Let me,” he says, and Daan leans back to watch him. He has to bite his lip to distract himself enough from Paolo touching his cock, giving him a few strokes before rolling down the condom with practiced ease.

Itching for something to do with his hands, Daan reaches for the lube. Glances up to meet Paolo’s eyes as he flicks it open. His stomach swoops.

“May I?” he asks, feeling more than a little out of his depth.

Paolo purses his lips, smirks. “So polite.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t raised by wolves,” Daan answers vaguely, but Paolo is already shifting to lie next to him on his back, parting his legs with an inviting look. Daan’s mouth goes dry and his body forgets how to move for a second at the sight.

But Paolo reaches for him and pulls him into a kiss, long, languid, unhurried. When they part, Daan is more than a little breathless, and Paolo is smiling softly, underneath him, thighs bracketing Daan’s.

“C’mere,” he says, and takes Daan’s hand, then looks at it and the lube, and Daan hurriedly squirts some onto his fingers, making a bit of a mess on the sheets. Lips in a focused line now, Paolo guides Daan’s hand, never takes his eyes off him.

“I’ll be fine if you go slow,” Paolo promises when Daan hesitates, and true to his word, when Daan carefully pushes in one finger, he doesn’t even blink, just watches him, eyes wide and almost luminous in the dark.

It feels nothing like doing this to himself. Of course the angle is different, and the level of sensation, but Paolo is more relaxed than he’s ever been about it, too. He takes one finger so easily it feels like no time at all before Daan is instinctively trying for another.

There’s an impatience in the way Paolo’s hips move as Daan’s fingers draw in and out, like he’d be doing this much faster if he were doing it himself, but he lets Daan take his time.

That is, until Daan brushes his prostate by accident, making Paolo close his eyes tight and groan, and becomes slightly obsessed with hitting it again. Paolo weathers about two more nudges there before he grabs at Daan’s wrist with a whine, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and pulls his fingers out of him. He lubes his own up haphazardly then, flips them back over to straddle Daan’s hips, and takes over with three of his own, thicker fingers, pulling Daan in for a desperate, hungry kiss. Daan cannot find the will in him to complain.

“Too slow, huh?” he teases instead, and Paolo huffs.

“There is slow,” he says, grimacing a bit with concentration, “and there is torture, _caro_.”

Daan laughs softly, but he gladly lets Paolo set the pace. And it’s a good thing he is already wearing a condom, because without much warning, Paolo grabs his cock with a lube-slicked hand, stroking him a few times before he lines them up. Daan barely has a chance to catch his breath before tight heat is enveloping him, as Paolo lowers himself with a groan.

“Oh god, _fuck_ ,” Daan’s powers of coherent speech are drastically diminished, but Paolo doesn’t seem to mind, looks faintly smug about it.

“How long has it been?” he asks, picking up the pace, and actually has the audacity to look at Daan for a reply.

“Uhhhh,” Daan tries, really does try, to answer, while his toes curl up with the effort of keeping himself together. But, words no good.

The bed shakes, shudders, creaks beneath them, and Daan can’t help but laugh at the way Paolo spits a curse, tries a different angle, leans in closer and goes for more shallow thrusts, to no avail. They are making enough of a ruckus to wake the dead.

“For fuck’s sake,” Paolo mutters in perfect Dutch, “this is not a bed, it’s a fucking menace,” and Daan loves the way he says that, loves the way he frowns, bites his lip, fucks down on him harder, like he doesn’t give a fuck anymore if all of Amsterdam hears them, like he won’t even stop if the bed collapses beneath them and crashes through the ceiling into his shop.

And then all it takes is Paolo changing the angle slightly, leaning down over him, caging him in to bring their lips together in a messy, breathless kiss, and Daan is coming. Coming like he hasn’t since he was a schoolboy. Helpless, overwhelmed, and still so turned on that he doesn’t know his own name anymore. He reaches for Paolo, pulls hips tight and close as he rides out the aftershocks, and Paolo lets him. Looks down at him with a fond smile as he fights to catch his breath.

“Did you just…”

Daan groans, hides his face in Paolo’s thick arm at his side, laughing a bit at himself. “Too long. It’s been too long. In case you were still wondering.”

Paolo snorts a laugh at that, but quickly shuts himself up, pulling Daan’s lips back to his for a kiss. He cants his hips up, lets Daan’s softening cock slip out of him, and slips off him to lie on his side with a sigh.

“Still worried this is just a ‘early midlife crisis?’” he teases, but he’s got a hand on his own still-hard dick, stroking it lazily, like he’s showing off how little of a hurry he’s in.

Daan groans and turns to face him, shaking his head as he ties the condom off and tosses it onto his bedside table to deal with later.

“You’re so much more of a smart-ass than I thought,” he remarks, a vague but directionless heat sparking in his belly at the sight of Paolo like this, sprawled out and shameless.

Paolo smirks and angles his chin just so, beckoning him in for another kiss.

Not trusting his ability to do any kind of satisfying take-over with a handjob at this angle, Daan leaves him to it, but he keeps his hands busy elsewhere, one tangled in the short hair at the back of Paolo’s neck and the other greedily exploring every inch of skin he can comfortably reach. Paolo comes with a grunt less than a minute later, painting the sheets between them.

He sprawls out onto his back with a groan after. Leaves a hand tangled in Daan’s sex-ruffled hair, careless, until he seems to notice it there and stops the soft, caressing movements his fingers hand been making. His light eyes turn to meet Daan’s, through dark lashes.

“You don’t mind this, do you?” he asks, moving his fingers again, just enough for Daan to know what he’s referring to. “Since we’re in bed already, anyway...?”

Daan can’t help but smile at the fact that Paolo thinks to ask, even if he seems to have difficulty keeping his hands out of it in the first place. He’s dated too many girls who found the very idea that there might be times he didn’t want them messing up his curls offensive.

Paolo starts to pull his hand away, and Daan turns his face to kiss it.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “It’s nice. ‘Since we’re in bed already, anyway.’” He winks, and Paolo mumbles something in Italian, but his fingers come back to the nape of his neck so Daan’s happy.

“Do you miss living in Italy?” he asks after a moment, his thoughts hazy and only tangentially connected in the post-orgasm bliss.

Paolo blinks slowly, thoughtfully, for a long moment before he lifts a shoulder in a one-armed shrug.

“It was okay,” he says. “I would say I miss sounding intelligent, but…” They both laugh, voices soft in the quiet and the dimness of the night. “Italia and I go back to visit her mother’s family for Christmas and in the summer holidays, sometimes for Easter, and I can never sound intelligent to her grandmother, even in my ‘mother tongue’.” He huffs another laugh on his own.

“Do they know—” Daan starts, and then hesitates. He isn’t really an expert in pillow talk with men, but it shouldn’t be hard to guess that asking your partner if he has come out to his sort-of in-laws isn’t very polite.

“That I’m gay?” Paolo finishes the sentence, sounding unconcerned. “Hell, no. Italia’s grandmother all but kicked her daughter out for being an individual. I’m sure she’d do the same to me if I told her. I can’t do that to Italia.”

Daan hums sympathetically. His own family are almost embarrassingly liberal, but even so he feels unsure if, when it comes to one of their own family, those values they so proudly profess would still hold true. If he brought a man back home for Eid, would he be pulled aside and told that, actually, he was being foolish for it? Or a bad father to Saar?

Paolo tightens his hand on the back of Daan’s neck, and meets his eyes, bringing his other hand up to trace the curve of Daan’s cheek.

“You are buried in thoughts,” he observes regretfully. “Has the afterglow faded so quickly?”

“No, I’m still full of glow,” Daan hums, shaking his head and the dark thoughts from it. “If I was a little younger and had less to drink,” he smirks a little, “I’d show you the glow all night long.”

Paolo chuckles and kisses him, long and slow, and Daan is just starting to wonder if there isn’t enough of a glow left even now, when Paolo’s eyes land on the alarm clock on his night table.

“It’s late,” he observes, and Daan knows what’s coming, so he shakes his head.

“No.”

Paolo looks at him, quietly amused. “No, it’s not late?”

“No, you shouldn’t be going,” Daan clarifies. “I mean, it _is_ late, but you have a long way home, you don’t even have a car, and the tram’s no longer running, and your bed will be empty, and cold.”

“Hm,” Paolo looks at him seriously, as if he is carefully considering the proposal. Still, his eyes are smiling, Daan is fairly sure.

“And if you stay here, well, I could make breakfast tomorrow…” he offers.

Paolo’s face is still impossible to read.

“I snore,” he says gravely. “My daughter told me so.”

“I sing in my sleep,” Daan counters, just as serious. “Old pop-songs. Whole verses.”

“I get cold feet at night.”

“Mine are warm, so that works out,” Daan can’t help but smirk.

Finally, Paolo breaks and cracks a smile.

“Fine,” he says, shaking his head and pulling Daan in for a quick, dirty kiss. “You win.”

Daan grins back, ignoring the wet patch between them in favor of pulling their bodies close, tangling their legs so that their feet touch.

“Victory is sweet,” he hums into another kiss. Paolo laughs softly against his lips and carefully shifts them out of the wet patch, settling Daan against his chest on the other side of the bed.


	4. to me, you are one of these dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> breakfast, kisses, and talk of the future.

**Paolo**

Paolo’s first thought upon waking, before he even thinks to question where he is, is that he should have taken a shower last night. Sweat and grime from a long day of work aside, his inner thighs are vaguely slick-sticky with last night’s lube, and his hair is a mess. As his eyes open slowly, and he gets his bearings, he’s grateful at least that Daan doesn’t appear to cuddle in his sleep much, so it’s fairly easy to extricate himself from the sheets and quietly pad over to the little bathroom to clean himself up, despite the bed’s creaking.

He showers quickly, trying not to dwell too much on how good he smells using Daan’s shower gel, and does what he can with mouthwash in lieu of a toothbrush. By the time he’s done and feeling fresher, changing back into yesterday’s clothes sounds like actual hell, so he decides to put it off for a while. At least until Daan wakes up and either offers some of his own clothes, or has a gay panic and kicks him out on the street.

His stomach rumbles, and Daan is showing few signs of stirring, so Paolo decides to poke around in the apartment’s tiny kitchen on his own. He may not be a professional chef, but he can at least make basics -- coffee that will wake you up, toast that isn’t burnt, eggs. Maybe Daan has some kind of jam?

A few minutes later, Paolo’s muttering curses under his breath as he passes up disappointing option after disappointing option. There’s hardly anything edible that he can find, some kind of sugary cereal probably for Saar, but no milk. Little juice boxes. A stovetop coffee maker, but no coffee that deserves the name. There is herbal tea, and _instant coffee_. Paolo has to forcibly keep himself from throwing that in the bin.

He is just thinking of settling for some not-quite-stale bread that looks like it was probably _delicious_ days ago, when soft rustling from the direction of the bed alerts him to the fact that Daan is finally awake.

“Mm, good _morning_ ,” Daan yawns, giving him an amused and appreciative once-over as he sits up and stretches. “Are you making breakfast?”

Paolo shakes his head, the sad bit of bread in one hand.

“I can’t believe you accused _me_ of not eating enough,” he says, a tad bitterly. But for Daan it’s too early to get emotional over breakfast, it seems. He just laughs softly, and the way his eyes crinkle in the early morning light makes Paolo feel a fool. Daan wriggles out of bed, pads over to where Paolo is standing, and slips his arms around him, nestling his chin in Paolo’s shoulder.

“ _Che bello_ ,” he teases a little, drawing a hand down to Paolo’s hip.

Paolo can’t help but snort at that. He puts the offending bread down and leans back into Daan, solid and warm, so warm, and just as naked as him.

“I _was_ trying to make breakfast,” he complains. “Only there isn’t anything to make. After all that big talk, do you honestly live on Honey Puffs?”

Daan’s laugh breathes warm air against his neck, and he shivers.

“Paolo, _caro mio_...” he says, no, _purrs_. Damn him. “I have a whole shop full of the most delicious food downstairs. I can make you a ten-course meal if you like. Eggs with truffles. Belgian waffles. Fresh juices. Fresh figs with honey. Ham from your side of the alps.”

“No,” Paolo shakes his head. “It’s too much. I want to feed _you_ for once. And even you must take breaks from all that fancy stuff once in a while. Breakfast, at least, should be simple,” he asserts.

Daan hums, pressing a kiss into his shoulder that makes him melt ever so slightly.

“I appreciate a man with strong opinions on breakfast,” he says, and even that mild language makes Paolo’s stomach swoop, damn it. He has to be more careful.

“Well, we’d have to get dressed...” Daan laments between further, lingering kisses, “... but the guys down the street make a fantastic coffee, and they have rolls and things to go with, and some very cute little tables out front. I go there for my breakfast most days of the week,” he admits.

Paolo hums and loosens Daan’s hold on him enough to turn around in his arms, satisfied.

“ _That_ is more like it,” he says.

Daan laughs, and plants a soft kiss on his lips. One that quickly devolves into a deeper, headier kiss when Daan’s half-hard cock drags against his thigh.

“We should get dressed,” Paolo mumbles, but it’s half-hearted. The feeling of Daan pressed against him has Paolo’s own dick quickly showing interest, and when Daan slowly backs towards the rumpled bed with a coy smile, he follows without a thought.

They’re both too urgent and too lazy this time for either of them to even suggest penetration, too comfortable just grabbing the lube to ease the way and rutting against each other, slipping occasionally between each other’s thighs as they pant and groan into each other’s mouths. It’s quiet and electric in a way that only weekend morning sex can be, though nowhere near as dragged-out as they could make it.

This time, Paolo is the first one to spill, but Daan follows soon after, making a mess of both of them. So much for freshness.

**Daan**

By the time he grabs a quick shower, Daan’s knees are still a little wobbly from that orgasm, or maybe Paolo’s presence just does that to him now, he muses while under the spray. Just the knowledge of Paolo standing by the sink, freshening up for the second time that morning, makes him feel all kinds of woozy, like an 18th century novel heroine. It’s ridiculous, and Daan loves every second of it.

“You wanna join me, wash my back?” he offers, splashing a little into Paolo’s direction. But Paolo only mutters something that vaguely sounds like, “you wanna be the death of me?” and Daan just chuckles and lets it go.

He comes out of the bathroom to see Paolo picking up his clothes from the floor and various other locations, frowning.

“You want something clean?” Daan asks, “Help yourself. _Mi wardrobe es su wardrobe_.”

“ _Muchas gracias_ ,” Paolo mumbles with a crooked smile, and takes him up on his offer. Somehow he manages to make a dark blue shirt of Daan’s look like it was actually custom-tailored for him. Daan does his best to drool as little as he can at the sight. Paolo catches his eye and seems to sense the levels of Daan’s distraction, risen so much that the bed is looking terribly inviting again.

“Aren’t you even a little hungry?” he asks.

“Famished,” Daan admits, pulling on a t-shirt and running his hands through his hair to neaten it just a bit. “But I’m gonna try and ignore that, and go out with you instead.”

Paolo snorts a laugh and turns toward the door. “Come, show me your favorite little café, _insaziabile_ ,” he says, but he gives Daan’s ass a feel through his jeans on his way past him, and lets his hand linger. Daan curses under his breath as his cock valiantly tries to respond.

They luck out, and when they arrive at Kaldi there’s no line, allowing them to order at their leisure. A black coffee for Paolo, a white one for Daan, and Daan lets Paolo pick out two of the plainest looking rolls Jacob and Rein have on offer for both of them before paying. Daan is just about to offer to stay inside and wait for their drinks while Paolo finds them a table outside, when Rein speaks up for him.

“I’ll help you out with these, Daan,” he says, taking the breads in hand and stepping out from behind the counter, nodding for him to follow. Daan raises an eyebrow, glancing back at Paolo, but he and Jacob are already too caught up sharing their disdain for over-sweetened coffee drinks for him to notice.

Outside, Rein sets the bread down on the best table before taking one of the two seats and fixing Daan with an expectant look.

“Alright, spill!” he demands, before Daan even has the chance to take a deep breath. “First you start internet dating all of a sudden -- no need to deny it, Bas told us all about the profile he set up for you -- and this morning you come in, with _the builder_? The guy with the heavenly ass and the gorgeous eyes?”

Daan tries to laugh it off. “Can you calm down? The door is open, you know. He… he works next door, he just asked me about where to get some breakfast.”

“He is _paying_ for your coffee,” Rein insists, narrowing his eyes.

“He is just doing me a favor,” Daan replies, wishing fervently that he’d thought this whole coffee thing through. What a fundamentally dumb idea.

“He is _wearing your shirt_ , Daan,” Rein shakes his head. “And he has sex hair. You both do. Do you think I’m blind?”

Daan feels his cheeks heat.

“So?” Rein needles further, “When were you going to tell us you’re _gay_? God, I knew there was a reason we liked you so much. Other than your fantastic daughter, of course.”

Daan sputters a laugh. “I’m not—” he insists. “I’m probably bisexual,” he says, trying out the label. “And Paolo is just—” he stops himself. He doesn’t know what Paolo is to him now. Doesn’t know if there’s a secret gay code he should know, if sex on the first date — or, before breakfast the morning after — means nothing, or everything. He glances through the window, meeting Paolo’s eyes, and can’t help but smile.

Across from him, Rein sighs like he’s watching the most romantic movie ever.

“I am so jealous,” he says. “Young love is the best.”

Daan huffs a laugh.

“You’re younger than me,” he reminds him, but Rein waves a hand.

“You know what I mean. Jacob never looks at me like that now. Like he could eat you right up.” Rein shudders appreciatively, dramatic as always.

“Well, could you please… not make a big thing of it?” Daan asks, shooting another glance at Paolo, who is just now grabbing two cups and a sugar shaker from the counter inside. “It’s all very new.”

“Oh, you know me,” Rein says confidentially, making a show of zipping his lips. “I am the soul of discretion.”

With that ominous promise, he stands and slips back into the shop just as Paolo comes out, no doubt to tell his partner every detail. Daan sighs.

Paolo takes the seat Rein just vacated and hands him a cup, and the shaker. “Jacob said you usually take sugar,” he says with an amused little smile.

“Maybe,” Daan admits, watching Paolo take a sip of his black coffee and deciding to be bold, “will you still kiss me if I do?”

Paolo smirks and glances around them pointedly. There aren’t a _lot_ of people on the sidewalk, but it is a Saturday morning. They’re certainly not alone out here.

“You’re very ‘out’ for a man who thought he might not even like men 24 hours ago,” he observes.

“Well, Rein took about two seconds to see right through us,” Daan confesses, still feeling a little wrong-footed. “So why not?” he says. “You’re very kissable.”

Paolo looks like he’s trying to stifle a grin as he takes a bite of his roll.

“Thank you,” he says, but after chewing and swallowing he does lean in and give Daan a quick kiss. Daan deepens it, and hums with loss when Paolo pulls back. He can see Jacob and Rein reacting from inside the coffee-shop, out of the corner of his eye, but manages to mostly ignore it. Paolo just looks amused.

“So…” Daan says after a moment, stirring too much sugar into his coffee. “What are your Saturdays normally like? Do they have you working weekends as well as a job below your pay-grade?”

He isn’t sure what he’s doing. He should let Paolo go home, let them both wind down on their own. They’ve already spent the night together, everything has moved so fast, but something in him isn’t ready to be on his own again yet.

“They would if they could,” Paolo answers, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair comfortably. “But no, I do at least get weekends free.”

That’s such an open-ended statement. Daan is just about to ask if maybe Paolo wants to spend some of that free time with him, until they get their two daughters back from their big koi adventure, but then Paolo says, “I usually try to study on weekends.”

When Daan looks at him, eyebrows raised, he almost looks a little shy. “I take night school. Working on a degree. Architecture.”

He takes a big bite from his roll, maybe so he has his mouth full and doesn’t have to talk anymore. Daan smiles.

“That sounds great. And exhausting. I did a business degree with night school years ago, but I had a wife then, so...” he clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee, not sure how to finish that without sounding too pitying or prying.

But Paolo just nods.

“It’s a lot of work,” he agrees. “And it takes me away from Italia more than I would like. But she gets on my back when I don’t study enough.”

He laughs softly, and Daan recognizes the pride and love in his eyes as the same thing he feels for Saar.

“I want to do something she can be proud of, you know?” he says.

Daan hums agreement.

“So…,” he says carefully, “I guess I’m lucky I caught you with any free time at all last night, then?”

Paolo shrugs. “I’m only human,” he says, but his face goes slightly unreadable, glancing down at his coffee. “But I won’t lie, I’m not easy to plan around. I know you’re dating on the internet and all that,” he waves a hand vaguely, “but I don’t… I don’t think I’d have the time to be a good boyfriend to anyone right now. If that’s… what you’re asking.”

Finally, Paolo glances back up at him. Daan swallows, and tries to smile. “I wasn’t… actually trying to think that far. Not that I wouldn’t— but maybe for now we could play it by ear? I’d rather see you a little than not at all.”

He leans in closer to take Paolo’s hand and Paolo lets him, but he is looking at his coffee again.

“That sounds complicated.”

Daan shrugs.

“We’re both adults. If it gets to be too much, we can talk about it, no? And be friends, at least.”

For a moment, Paolo doesn’t respond, but then he squeezes Daan’s hand. “Friends does sound disappointing now, doesn’t it,” he sighs, and the soft hint of a smile he turns on Daan then makes him feel like he’s floating. But he takes his hand back too quickly, returning to his breakfast and sitting back in his seat.

“Just be gentle with me, I beg you,” he says. “It’s years since I’ve dated anyone at all, and…” he grimaces, “longer than that since I’ve done it seriously. I probably suck.”

Daan laughs and flicks a bit of bread at him from across the table.

“Finish your roll,” he says. “I’ll walk you to the tram.”

Paolo picks at the roll in front of him a bit before glancing up at him, eyes bright, a soft smile spreading across his face. Daan bites back his own smile and pulls him back in for another kiss, just for that.


End file.
